As he stood there marveling at the trappings of incredible wealth, David Chan thought only about his father, how the man he was about to see had been involved, he knew, in his father’s disappearance. Probably Byung Yu’s father more so, but still.
An anger that lived inside Chan, a special anger burning like an eternal flame, dedicated exclusively to the Yus, flared to the fore of Chan’s consciousness. He glared around the room.
It irritated him that there were many examples of Korean celadon, just as in his house, that there were many books, just as in his house, but the collection here made his seem insignificant.
There were many paintings One struck him most. It was a stunning Korean woman dressed in traditional Hanbok. Chan had occasionally seen Yu’s current quote unquote wife, and this woman did not resemble his memory of her.
“Mister Chan,” came the velvet voice from behind him, “to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
Chan turned to Byung Yu, saying nothing for what seemed a long while.
Yu smiled. “Yes?” he asked.
Turning again, Chan pointed up to the painting of the woman. “That’s an amazing portrait.”
“Ah, yes, that’s my first wife. That Hanbok is the traditional one for bridal showers. Exquisite, my wife’s taste in everything. Sometimes when I look at it, I think her still alive. Ah well, you know what they say. One is never dead while one lives on in the memory of the living.”
“Yes,” said Chan, “Yes, I’ve heard that. How tragic to have lost her so young.”
Yu nodded. “And I know you are in similar circumstances, Mister Chan, losing your dear wife to cancer.”
“I forget,” said Chan, though he certainly had not, “how was it that your first wife died?”
* * * * *
Aloha #WriterTuesday, I hope you are well. Today’s #WritingPrompt is
Use it to inspire a piece of writing, and then post your piece on your site and link back to me, or simply leave it as a comment below. I would love to read it : )